CHAPTER TWENTYݍNINE
OF CHAOS
leep had claimed me at some point in the night, my fingers still looselyS intertwined with Death’s through the bars.
I’d awoken alone, my hand cold where his warmth had been, though whether he’d pulled away first or my own unconscious retreat had broken our connection, I couldn’t say.
“Harbinger?” I had whispered, the word barely loud enough to disturb the dust motes swirling in the weak shaft of light from the high grate.
Silence answered, but I hadn’t been surprised. I had fallen asleep clinging to his hand like a child clutching a security blanket. What god wanted that?
Still, hours later, here I sat pressed up against our shared wall, watching the thin shaft of daylight track across my cell floor with the approach of late afternoon, my fingers tracing my swollen lips.
The quiet was a blessing. No guards, no Valen, no demands. I closed my eyes, focusing on the simple act of existing. Breathing. In. Out. The
momentary peace — Whistling.
The tune was jaunty, almost deliberately cheerful. It bounced off the dungeon walls, growing louder as it approached. Beneath it came footsteps, but they were wrong. Too light, too quick, lacking the measured tread of guards or Valen’s deliberate pace.
I pushed myself further upright, ignoring the complaints of my bruised body. Whoever was coming, I wouldn’t meet them sprawled on the floor. I
still had that much pride left, at least.
The whistling stopped as the footsteps halted outside my cell. I kept my eyes on the wall opposite me, refusing to acknowledge my visitor. But curiosity, that damnable weakness, finally forced my gaze toward the bars.
A man stood before my cell, though “man” seemed an inadequate word for the creature. He was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at, golden- skinned and sharp-featured, with eyes that gleamed like polished amber in the dim light. His dark hair was elaborately braided and secured with beads that glinted in every slight movement of his head. He wore fine clothes that seemed obscenely out of place in these dank surroundings—a silk shirt the color of aged wine, breeches of soft leather, boots that bore not a single scuff despite the filth of the dungeon floor.
Everything about him was wrong for this setting—too bright, too clean, too alive. He looked like a courtier who had taken a wrong turn after a palace feast and somehow ended up in hell, but his smile... his smile belonged in these shadows. It curved his full lips into something predatory, something that promised pain delivered with laughter.
He leaned against the bars of my cell, his posture so casually disrespectful of boundaries that I knew instantly he was no ordinary visitor. His eyes raked over me, taking in my disheveled appearance with the air of a connoisseur examining a curiosity.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice smooth as honey over broken glass, “aren’t you a pretty wreck.”
Something in his tone, the casual cruelty wrapped in velvet, made my skin prickle with warning. I said nothing, watching him as he rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy admiring a caged creature at a menagerie.
“The bruises suit you,” he continued, tilting his head to better examine my face. “Vharok always did have an artistic touch. Though I must say, Princess, your eyes look like you’ve been weeping blood.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Such a shame to ruin such a lovely face.”
Before I could respond, or decide whether responding was worth the effort, another voice spoke.
A voice like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath. Quiet, measured, but promising violence with every syllable.
“Kassimir.”
No warmth from my harbinger. No question. Only recognition.
The golden stranger stilled.
Then, slowly, his grin widened, too many teeth gleaming in the shadows.
He turned toward the wall that separated our cells, head cocked like he’d heard the whisper of a ghost.
“Hello, old friend,” he said brightly, voice dripping with false affection.
“How lovely to hear your voice after all this time. Though... I must admit, captivity hasn’t done much for your charm.”
A pause. And then — “So concerned with my charm, Kas?” Death’s voice was quieter now, colder. Each word fell like a drop of blood into still water. “Why don’t you come closer. We’ll reacquaint ourselves... properly.”
Kassimir laughed, the sound bright and terrible in the gloom. “Oh, I don’t think so. I quite like my skin where it is, attached to the rest of me.” He pivoted back to me, eyes dancing. “He’s always been so dramatic, your neighbor. Full of dire threats and gloomy pronouncements. Did you know that? Or has he been maintaining his last twenty-something years of being the strong, silent type?”
I didn’t respond. I was too tired for games, too wary of this new player who had entered my nightmare with whistling lips and lying eyes. Instead, I studied him, noting the coiled energy beneath his casual stance, the way his fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the bars. Everything about him screamed danger, but it was a different kind than I’d grown accustomed to.
Valen’s cruelty was calculated, precise. This man’s danger felt... chaotic.
Unpredictable. His eyes held the gleeful malice of a child pulling wings from insects, his smile the anticipation of watching something beautiful break in unexpected ways.
“Not very talkative, are you?” Kassimir observed, his tone suggesting he found this both disappointing and intriguing. “After all the stories I’ve heard about the sharp-tongued princess, I expected more.”
I kept my silence, unwilling to dance to his tune simply because he expected it. Something told me that denying him the reaction he sought would frustrate him more than any cutting remark.
His eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication that my silence had indeed irked him. Then his smile returned, brighter and more dangerous than before.
“How terribly rude of me,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock contrition. “Kassimir, God of Chaos, at your service. Though you may call me Kas, as all my friends do.” His smile sharpened as he dropped into a
mocking bow. “Including my former companion, your surly neighbor. We have such history, he and I.”
A tremor ran through the stone at my back—not the frantic struggle of a prisoner against chains, but something deeper, more controlled. Power, I realized. Death hadn’t moved, hadn’t rattled his chains or thrown himself against the bars. He had simply... shifted something within himself, and the world had responded.
“Former companion,” Death echoed, each word precise and cutting.
“Such a gentle way to describe betrayal.”
“Oh, come now,” Kassimir said, waving a dismissive hand. “Betrayal is so harsh. You always knew my nature. What I am. What I do.” He glanced at me, winking as if we shared some private joke. “Chaos doesn’t pick sides, Princess.”
His gaze then traveled over me with deliberate slowness, a predator assessing not whether to devour its prey, but how best to savor the process.
There was something worse than mere interest in his gaze—a casual cruelty, a boredom seeking entertainment at any cost.
“Our Vharok has been quite... attentive to you, hasn’t he?” Kassimir observed. “Those lovely bruises.”
His hand reached through my bars, as if to touch me. I retreated instinctively, back pressing harder against the wall that separated me from Death. Through the stone, I felt rather than heard a low vibration, like the growl of some massive beast preparing to strike.
“You won’t touch her, Kassimir.” Death’s voice cut through the stone, precise as a surgeon’s blade and twice as cold. “Not unless you want to know what eternity tastes like as I rip it through your throat.”
Kassimir’s smile widened, genuine delight dancing in his amber eyes.
“Oh, listen to him.” He addressed me directly, as if inviting me to share his amusement. “So protective.” He tilted his head, studying me with renewed interest. “Do you have any idea what he is?”
I remained silent, but my fingers curled into fists at my sides. My nails bit crescents into my palms, the small pain grounding me, keeping me from showing the fear that threatened to rise like bile in my throat.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Kassimir continued, pulling his hand back. “He always did have a weakness for pretty things. Mortal or otherwise.” He glanced toward the wall separating our cells. “Remember Aline? The little spring demigoddess from the western isles? You had such
plans for her. Let’s try not to repeat those mistakes with our pretty little wreck, hm?”
The vibration against my back intensified, power bleeding through stone.
I could feel Death’s rage like a physical presence, pressing against the barriers that held him, seeking any crack, any weakness through which it might escape.
“How noble of you,” I finally said, my voice emerging rougher than I’d intended. “To concern yourself with my future well-being. I’m positively overwhelmed by your compassion.”
Kassimir’s head snapped back toward me, surprise flickering across his perfect features before a slow, genuine grin spread across his face. This smile reached his eyes, kindling something like real pleasure there.
“Oh, she speaks! And with such lovely venom.” His hands wrapped fully around my bars. “I can see why he’s intrigued. Why they’re both intrigued, really. Vharok mentioned you had fire beneath all that royal polish, but I thought perhaps he’d extinguished it by now.”
He reached out again as if to touch my face, fingers hovering just above my skin. I felt the heat of him—not the divine furnace of Valen’s touch, but something more volatile, unpredictable. Like standing too close to lightning, knowing it might strike anywhere, anytime, obeying laws too chaotic to
predict.
“Don’t.” The word emerged as a command.
I wouldn’t beg. Not from him. Not from anyone.
His hand paused, then withdrew, but the smile remained. “As you wish.”
He stepped back, gesturing toward the door. “Unfortunately, I didn’t come here just for pleasantries. You and I, pretty wreck, we have places to be.”
“Where?” I asked, even as the guards—not my guards, I noticed— approached with a ring of iron keys.
“Vharok has plans for you today,” Kassimir replied. “Special plans. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll survive... Mostly sure.”
The cell door groaned open, and Kassimir stepped inside, extending a hand as if he were a gentleman caller rather than my newest jailer. “Shall we?” Kassimir asked, gesturing toward the open door with exaggerated
courtesy.
Ignoring his hand, I stood.
“If she is harmed,” Death’s voice came from his cell, soft as falling snow yet somehow filling the entire dungeon, “I will find the crack in every realm
and pull you through it, Kassimir. I will shred your essence so thoroughly that not even the memory of you will remain.”
The threat hung between the three of us, terrible in its quiet certainty.
This was a promise, delivered with the calm assurance of one who had the power to fulfill it, regardless of chains or walls or divine limitations.
For the first time since his arrival, Kassimir’s façade faltered. A muscle in his jaw tightened, his posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. The amber of his eyes seemed to flicker, like flames disturbed by an unfelt wind. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment of vulnerability passed, sealed beneath layers of practiced nonchalance.
“Bold threats from a chained god.” He took my arm, his grip surprisingly gentle but unbreakable. “Besides, why would anyone damage the king’s favorite toy?”
As I crossed the threshold, I glanced back—not at Kassimir, not at the guards, but toward the wall that separated me from Death, desperate for even a glimpse of my harbinger.
Kassimir noticed the direction of my gaze and deliberately stepped between us, his tall frame blocking my view of Death’s cell. “No fond farewells, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice laced with mock regret. “We’re on a rather tight schedule.”
Death struck the bars then, the sound making me jump after the quiet rumbling from before.
“Come along, Princess,” Kassimir said, his voice deliberately light. “Let’s leave him to his tantrum.”
I took one step, then another, each carrying me further from the cell that had been my world for weeks beyond counting. Kassimir’s fingers circled my wrist like a manacle of warm flesh, his grip deceptively gentle as he led me through the winding corridors of my prison.
And in each step, Death’s presence receded. That strange, comforting weight growing fainter, the connection between us stretching thin until I could barely feel it at all. His final threat to Kassimir echoed in my mind, a promise of violence so absolute it transcended the boundaries of mortality and divinity alike.
If she is harmed, I will find the crack in every realm and pull you through it.
We climbed stone steps that spiraled upward, each one taking me further from the damp darkness I’d come to know as home. My legs trembled with the effort, confinement having weakened muscles once accustomed to daily rides and long walks through the palace gardens. Kassimir slowed his pace without comment, his thumb absently stroking the pulse point at my wrist— not out of kindness, I suspected, but to feel the flutter of my heartbeat, to measure my weakness.
“Almost there, Princess,” he said, voice lilting with amusement. “Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten the way?”
I had not forgotten. But the route felt foreign now, as if I were walking through the memory of a place rather than the place itself. The stone beneath my bare feet gradually gave way to marble, cold and smooth. The air changed, too. No longer thick with mildew and despair, but lighter, scented with beeswax and the lavender that had always been burned in the palace corridors.
Light assaulted my eyes as we emerged from the servants’ stairwell into a sunlit hallway. I flinched, raising my free arm to shield my face from the brightness streaming through tall windows. After the perpetual twilight of the dungeon, daylight felt like violence.
“Ah, yes,” Kassimir said, watching my reaction with clinical interest.
“The sun. I imagine that’s quite shocking after your little sojourn below.
Don’t worry, your eyes will adjust. The mortal body is remarkably adaptable, isn’t it? Even to the most extreme circumstances.”
I did not deign to answer him, lowering my arm gradually and squinting against the light as we continued down the hall. Guards posted at intervals barely glanced our way, their expressions carefully blank. I recognized some of them. These were Vareth men, wearing Valen’s colors now. I wondered how many had witnessed my father’s execution, how many had watched as Valen slaughtered my half-siblings.
The corridor narrowed, then opened into the eastern wing of the palace— my wing, where my chambers had been since childhood. Something twisted in my chest as Kassimir stopped before the familiar carved door. It felt like a lifetime since I had been here, a different person last passed through this entrance.
Kassimir pushed the door open without ceremony, gesturing for me to precede him. “After you.”
I stepped inside and froze, disoriented by the preserved perfection before me. Nothing had changed. The same pale silk draped the windows, the same books lined the shelves, the same silver brush sat on the dressing table where I’d left it the morning of my wedding. It was as if the room had been suspended in time, waiting for a mistress who no longer existed.
“Uncanny, isn’t it?” Kassimir closed the door behind us, leaning against it as he watched my reaction. “Vharok ordered it kept exactly as you left it.
Personally, I found that rather sentimental, but our king has his... peculiarities.”
I moved toward the dressing table, drawn by the familiar objects there.
My fingertips, filthy and broken-nailed, hovered over the silver brush. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it, to contaminate this pristine relic of my former life.
“Why am I here?” My voice sounded strange in this room. Too rough, too hollow for these delicate surroundings.
Kassimir pushed away from the door, drifting further into the chamber with the casual ease of someone entirely comfortable with invasion. “There’s to be a feast tonight. Quite the grand affair. Vharok is formally presenting himself to the nobles of Vareth. At least, those who survived his initial... restructuring.”
Barely stoping myself from wincing at his words, I watched him run a finger along the spines of my books, seemingly fascinated by the mundane details of my previous life. “You’re to attend, of course. Hence—“ He gestured toward a doorway where steam curled invitingly into the room. “A bath has been prepared. I suggest you make use of it. You smell like shit.”
The bluntness of his assessment didn’t sting. In fact, it almost made me laugh, but I held it back as I moved toward the bathing chamber, drawn by the promise of warm water against my skin. After a week of being wiped down with damp cloths by guards too embarrassed to meet my eyes, the thought of true cleanliness was intoxicating.
The large copper tub dominated the small room, filled with steaming water. Beside it, a table held soaps, oils, and cloths—the familiar tools of a ritual that once marked the beginning and end of my days. Now they seemed like artifacts from another life, belonging to a woman who had died the night Valen revealed his true nature.
Without hesitation, I reached for the hem of my filthy shift and pulled it over my head. Nakedness had lost all meaning in the dungeon. My body was no longer a private sanctuary but a canvas for Valen’s cruelty, displayed and used at his whim. Why should I care if Kassimir saw it now?
I dropped the soiled garment to the floor and stepped into the tub, gasping as hot water enveloped my legs. The temperature bordered on painful, but I welcomed it, sinking down until the water reached my shoulders. Heat penetrated my skin, seeping into muscles that had been cold for what felt like forever.
The scent of jasmine rose with the steam—apparently my mother’s preferred fragrance, according to my nursemaid. A fragrance I adopted. The familiarity of it struck something raw within me, a wound I’d thought cauterized by suffering. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to recapture some fragment of the woman I had been.
“I wouldn’t try anything foolish.” Kassimir’s voice startled me. I opened my eyes to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching me with that same detached curiosity. “The Blood God was quite specific about delivering you intact for tonight’s festivities.”
I met his gaze steadily. “I have nowhere to go.”
Something like disappointment flickered across his features. “How depressingly pragmatic of you. I was rather hoping for some futile act of escape. Those are always entertaining.”
Ignoring him, I reached for the soap—a pale oval scented with jasmine and honey—and began to wash myself methodically. First my arms, then my chest, my stomach, each movement mechanical and deliberate. The water clouded with dirt and dried blood, remnants of my captivity swirling away from my skin.
Above the tub hung a small mirror, angled to allow bathers to see themselves. I caught a glimpse of my reflection and stilled, soap suspended above the water. The woman staring back was a stranger. Hollow-cheeked, with shadows beneath silver-flecked eyes that seemed too large for her face.
Purple-blue bruises encircled her mouth where Valen’s cruel kiss had branded her. Other marks—darker, uglier—mottled her neck and collarbone.
I touched my lips gently, watching my reflection mimic the gesture. The flesh was tender, swollen in places where it had split. These were not the marks of passion but of possession… Visible reminders that my body belonged to him.
“He certainly left his mark, didn’t he?” Kassimir commented, still watching from the doorway. “Though I must say, it lacks his usual... merciless charm. Perhaps he’s grown fond of you.”
I ignored him, focusing instead on my hands as I scrubbed them beneath the water. Dirt had embedded itself beneath my nails, outlining them in black.
I scrubbed harder, using my thumbnail to dig under each nail, watching as dark crescents should have given way to clean beds.
Except they didn’t. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the darkness remained, stubborn and accusing.
I scrubbed more frantically, my movements losing their methodical quality as panic rose in my throat. My nails had to be clean. I couldn’t attend a feast—couldn’t sit at Valen’s side—with filth trapped beneath my fingernails like evidence.
“They won’t come clean,” I muttered, more to myself than to Kassimir.
My breathing quickened as I scraped harder, drawing blood from my cuticles.
“What won’t come clean?” Kassimir asked, his tone shifting slightly. For the first time, he sounded genuinely curious rather than mocking.
“The dirt.” I held my hands up to the light, examining each nail with growing desperation. “The blood. It’s under my nails. On my hands. I can’t —“ I broke off, plunging my hands back into the water and reaching for a small brush meant for scrubbing fingertips.
Kassimir straightened from the wall, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “There’s no blood on your hands,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You’re clean. Stop before you hurt yourself.”
But I couldn’t stop. Some part of me knew he was right, that the stains I saw were imaginary, but the compulsion to scrub was overwhelming. My nails raked across my hands, leaving raw, red marks in their wake. The pain was distant, secondary to the driving need to be clean.
I couldn’t breathe. The walls of the bathing chamber seemed to press inward, the air thick and suffocating. The jasmine scent that had once been comforting now choked me, cloying and oppressive. The water that had felt so luxurious moments before now seemed to weigh me down, to trap me.
Without conscious thought, I slid beneath the surface of the water, letting it close over my head. The world became muffled, distant. My hair floated around my face like seaweed, obscuring my vision. I kept my eyes open, staring up through the wavering surface at the ceiling beyond.
I held my breath until my lungs burned, until spots danced at the edges of
my vision. There was a strange peace in it—this controlled drowning, this small rebellion against my body’s instinct to survive. I could choose this. I could decide when to breathe, when to surface. When to not. It was the only choice left to me.
The urge to breathe grew stronger, a pressure building in my chest, but I resisted. Just a little longer. Just a few more seconds of peace.
My lungs began to spasm, my body fighting against my will to remain submerged. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. Still, I stayed under, testing the limits of endurance, flirting with the edge of consciousness.
Then, just as darkness began to creep inward from the periphery of my vision, strong hands plunged into the water, gripping my shoulders and hauling me upward. I broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from my hair and face as I gulped air into starved lungs.
Kassimir’s face hovered inches from mine, his golden eyes no longer amused but sharp with annoyance. “I said no foolishness,” he hissed, his fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Do you think death would free you from him? Vharok is a God. One of the first. There is no escape—not through death, not through madness.”
I blinked water from my eyes, oddly calm now that the momentary spell had broken. “I was merely washing my hair.”
His grip tightened, and for an instant, his skin took on a golden sheen, heat radiating from his hands. “Do not play games with me, Princess. I am not as patient as Vharok, nor as interested in your continued existence.”
“Then why stop me?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Kassimir’s expression shifted, the anger receding behind his usual mask of detached amusement. He released me, stepping back from the tub.
“Because Vharok would be displeased. And contrary to what you might believe, I have no desire to incur the wrath of the Blood God. Now finish your bath. We’re expected soon.”
He turned and left the bathing chamber, though I knew he remained in the bedroom beyond, still guarding, still watching. His words about Vharok— Valen—being one of the first gods was something I would have to revisit, but for now, I sank back into the cooling water, methodically finishing what I had started. Soap. Rinse. Oil for my hair. Each action performed with mechanical precision, preparatory rituals for whatever performance Valen had planned.
The blood remained beneath my nails.
